


Grey

by emoviolent



Series: try this with your eyes closed [2]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Band, Angst, Customer/Client, Drug Addiction, Drug Dealing, Dysfunctional Relationships, Guilt, Horror, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, No comfort Here, Prostitution, keep it moving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 05:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17781419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emoviolent/pseuds/emoviolent
Summary: “Prove your love to me and I may reconsider.”





	Grey

**Author's Note:**

> valentine’s day is the bastardized lovechild of a consumerist cisheteronormative society and doesn’t serve any purpose outside of selling you cheap candy and wilting flowers you’ll forget about within the next week. fuck romance. the heart is a vortex.

You never realize how much you need something until it’s gone. It starts with an aching, gnawing feeling beneath the surface of the skin, chewing its way through nerve until it reaches its apex and is able to rise - except it never does. Then there’s that itch and the need to scratch, but at what? Something budding and growing, slowly and quietly. You never quite figure out where it came from and when it appeared and heaven knows when it’ll disappear, but it’s there. And you can never scratch quite deep enough, but you get closer to the root of the sensation every once in a while but it hurts too much, causing you to retreat and keep your distance. 

Patrick hasn’t had a good scratch in a while and his body burns with it. He imagines that this is what addicts must feel when they need their next hit. Call it karma, he supposes. In a way, he is an addict - he’s addicted to the way it feels felt to be needed by someone, to be their one and only, to give them a sliver of purpose. He’s a narcissist and borderline psychopathic in his actions towards others. Maybe he deserves to feel so hollow and guilty. He just wishes it wasn’t at the cost of Pete’s life.

But he could have prevented that easily and he didn’t. He could have turned Pete away, afforded the best therapy in the state to get him clean and mentally stable, helped him get an actual job that didn’t rely on selling himself to strangers for the night. Deep down, Patrick knows that Pete would have just gone elsewhere to get his drugs, that it would have taken extensive care to get him to reform into a functional member of society and that Pete would have died one way or another but he could have tried and he chose not to. He waited too long and supplied Pete with everything he needed to destroy himself, watching idly and revelling in the sense of control he had over him. 

Pete’s death may be listed as ‘accidental drug overdose’ but the reality is that it was murder, manslaughter, possibly first degree because Patrick knew exactly what he was doing. He killed Pete, not the drugs, not his lifestyle, not his past. He made the choice to let Pete slip further and further into his addiction with the same awe that a child has when pouring salt on a slug. 

I did this to him and I could have helped him. I’m a killer. 

He thought Pete was overly dependent, clingy, desperate, but maybe he was just projecting and purposefully warping Pete’s interactions. He could see that Pete wanted a better life and that he almost could have had it - but he tore that away from him and shattered whatever dreams he had. He fucking destroyed Pete and broke him down over time. It was only so long before he overdosed and Patrick was only prolonging the inevitable and trying to control it in any way he could. 

Well, he got what he wanted. It feels a little bittersweet knowing that he saved Pete from death at the hands of someone else while still managing to break him worse than anyone else could. Funny how things work out. 

A soft tap comes against the window of Patrick’s car. In the dim lighting of the alleyway, two eyes peer down at him, wide and glinting mischievously. Patrick rolls down his window, avoiding eye contact with the subject. “Hey mister, I’d hate for you to be alone on such a lovely holiday” a sweet voice drawls. “Looking for fun tonight?”

He shouldn’t be out here, not after what he did to Pete. He feels almost guilty for looking at another person and seeking to use them the same way despite his relationship with Pete never truly being defined. Whatever was left of his trust and respect for Pete is completely torn by this, even in death. 

Patrick just needs the company, someone who wants and needs him, even if he has to pay them to fake it. He always looks for the same kind of man - young with dark eyes, dark hair and tattoos. There aren’t many of them in the city, but they sure are easy to find if you know how to look. 

At this point Patrick can’t even tell them apart and he doesn’t know if that would offend or please Pete if he knew what he was doing. “Every whore is the same,” Pete once told him after one of their trysts as he pulled his jeans back on and fluffed his hair. “Don’t even bother trying to distinguish between any of us. At the end of the day, we all want the same things and will do anything to get them.” 

Those words somehow burn even more now, almost like they’ve been branded into his brain with heated metal. A lobotomy or some other form of self induced brain damage would be ideal.

Patrick doesn’t even make eye contact as he unlocks the passenger door and feels another body next to him. The prostitute’s facial expression changes in the poor lighting of the car, likely a flirtatious smile meant to entice Patrick. His hand brushes over Patrick’s right knee and he introduces himself as Ryan. Patrick averts his eyes and doesn’t answer back, nodding his head in acknowledgement instead. Eventually the vehicle comes to complete silence, the unspoken message understood and respected. 

He doesn’t want to build anymore connections. If anything, this is his pathetic attempt at resuscitating whatever is left of the relationship he had with Pete. There isn’t really a point if Pete is dead. 

That won’t stop him though. He’ll think of it as a gift to himself. 

 

By ten o’clock Ryan is gone, leaving the smell of cheap perfume and cigarettes in his wake. Patrick lays in bed, staring at the popcorned ceiling. Ryan wasn’t anything like Pete. No one ever could be. When he squinted at his face while he was under him, he could pretend he was Pete, but so much was out of order. He was too pale, too tall, too meek and off-standish and not nearly as experienced as Pete. He didn’t smell anything like him either, and yet Patrick could somehow feel the presence of Pete.

Guilt washes over him. Funny how he can’t feel anything until he thinks about Pete. That’s his job; he was the one who brought enrichment to Pete’s life. But why does he feel so damn alone?

Patrick’s mind wanders as he tugs his clothes back on and walks downstairs. What did Pete’s final moments feel like? Patrick stared at him dead-on as he took his last breath, watched the light leave his eyes, felt the warmth drain from his body. What was he feeling when he died? 

What would Pete feel now? 

Somehow Patrick finds himself shrouded in the dark of the dining room, staring down an empty bottle of bourbon. He hasn’t drank this much in quite some time. While Pete unraveled, he flourished and got himself together. He had a reason to get better, even if it was out of spite for the chance to rub his sobriety in the face of a struggling addict. 

And then there’s a knock at the front door. The wind blows, rustling the dry bare branches of the trees in the front yard. Patrick’s eyes fly to the analogue clock above the doorway; twelve o’clock at night. Who could that be at this ungodly hour and how did they find him? No one knows where he lives - he makes sure to only give out addresses to safe houses and P.O. boxes to secure his identity and keep himself untraceable. Very few people would know where to find his house. 

He doesn’t answer the door. Whoever the visitor is, they can fuck off to hell. Maybe they’ll assume he is sound asleep or hopefully have the wrong address. He mostly just wants them gone and to never be bothered again. 

Nearby, glass shatters and something thuds against the ground, the sound muted against carpet. Patrick jumps in his seat, knocking the empty glass bottle over and breaking it. “Shit!” He bends over to grab the broken shards, careful to not cut himself in the process. 

He doesn’t hear the footsteps or notice the shadow standing over him. Instead, every hair on his neck stands on end and his heart races in his chest. Patrick looks up and finds two glistening eyes staring at him curiously. “Hello, Patrick.”

Patrick scuttles back, crushing the glass in the palm of his hand and splitting the tender flesh open. His lips move but no sound comes out. “Wh-who the fuck are you?” he yells. He reaches for his pistol before remembering that he left it upstairs. 

A high, gaudy giggle comes from the figure in front of him. That laugh… “Even when you’re drunk, you still think you’re in control.” The person crouches down and presses their fingertips into the carpet, poking at the wet spot on the floor. “I thought you’d given up the bottle.” 

The blood in Patrick’s veins runs cold and he stops breathing. It can’t be. “No. No, wait. You’re dead!” he exclaims. “You died!” Pete is dead, there’s no way he - 

Again comes that laugh, this time darker and taking on a menacing tone. Pete recoils, drawing back and slinking into an empty chair across from Patrick. “Yes,” he replies. “I died. You killed me.” 

“I- I didn’t mean to…”

“Mean to what?” Pete interrupts. He leans forward, silhouette contorting into something devious in the dark. “Mean to support my addiction? Neglect my feelings and needs? Watch me continue my downward spiral while not even attempting to raise a finger?” 

“Pete,” Patrick says weakly. “I love you, you know I do.” 

Pete laughs bitterly. “Love? You think you love me? Is that what you think love is? Cutting me into pieces and disemboweling me? Shoving me in a trash bag and burying me deep in the woods like yesterday’s garbage just to be found and identified through dental records?” Pete’s words dripped with venom. Patrick’s mouth dried and his voice left him. “Did you even love me? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

A tear slipping down his cheek, Patrick whispers, “Yes.” I hurt you. 

Pete tsks, not completely convinced, and shakes his head. “You wouldn’t know true love unless it was staring you right in the face. So I suppose I owe you a look, hmm?” 

“Pete, please.” 

The ceiling fan light turns on, revealing Pete in all his battered glory; greying skin, yellow nails and eyes, bruised scarred flesh and mud soaked clothes. Pete smiles at Patrick’s despair and a piece of his cheek falls off. He picks it up, presses it back into place and sits back, crossing his legs. 

“I’m sorry, Pete, I really am,” Patrick pleads between sobs. The glass in his hand burns, further tearing the skin to shreds and causing crimson to bead up and roll down his wrists. More tears fall from his eyes as he looks up at Pete. “I didn’t mean for this to happen and if I could I’d take it back.” 

“Have you any idea how pathetic you look right now?” Patrick could only imagine - the image of a drunken man crying and kneeling before the corpse of his beloved hooker/client was a sorry spectacle - but he shook his head. Nothing would be enough to show his remorse for what he’d done to Pete. 

“Please,” he sobs. “What can I do to fix this?” 

The flesh of Pete’s skin festers as maggots swarm underneath. A fly crawls from his ear as he fixes Patrick with a waxy expression. “You know what you have to do, Patrick. You’ve known the entire time. Haven’t you?” 

Patrick nods solemnly. He knows. Oh God does he know. He smears the blood from his wrists onto his pants and looks at his hands, both amazed and disgusted at the damage they’ve brought forth. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a long sliver of glass. That’ll do. 

“Prove your love and worth to me and I may reconsider.” Pete’s voice is a low hiss, almost as sharp as the granules of glass in Patrick’s hand. 

Patrick shakily presses the shard into one wrist and drags it down, gasping at the stinging pain that swells and bursts from his nerves. Pete watches with empty unmoving eyes, a smile curling on his pales lips. A moth falls out of a sore on his forehead and flutters frantically on the carpet before stilling. 

Patrick switches to the other wrist, pressing deeper and gritting his teeth to hold back a groan of agony. Blood bubbles up over broken skin and drips onto the carpet and cloth of his clothes. His vision swims and swirls as he asks, “Does this make us even?” 

Somewhat hesitantly, Pete replies, “Sure.” His voice sounds so far away and murky. Then it’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> i give my gratitude to snitchesandtalkers for beta-ing my work and the band alesana, which once again has been influential to my work.


End file.
